


My Sweetest Downfall

by lilylashes



Series: A Case of You [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilylashes/pseuds/lilylashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to 'A Case of You'.</p><p>An exploration of Sherlock and John's relationship once Sherlock's feeling are revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Sweetest Downfall

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I just wanted to say thank you for the overwhelming response to 'A Case of You'! As I said in my a/n on that story, it was my first time writing fluff, though I actually found that I enjoyed it quite a bit! This here is the sequel to 'A Case of You', and is from John's point of view. It picks up basically where 'A Case of You' left off, and will follow through the end of Season Two.
> 
> The lyrics are from Regina Spektor's song, 'Samson'. (Oh Lord, another song fic.) This was originally intended to be a one-shot, but it got to be a bit too long, so this will be in two parts. 
> 
> If this story goes over as well as 'A Case of You' did, there is a third and final installment I was planning on as well :)
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who read the first story, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> xx
> 
> lilylashes
> 
> (Please note that this story is also un-beta-ed and semi-un-Brit-picked. I do have a lovely person who has agreed to help me with general Brit-picking, but that has mainly consisted of me asking him specific questions about culture and language rather than sending him a copy of any of my stories.)

_You are my sweetest downfall_  
 _I loved you first, I loved you first_  
 _Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth_  
 _I have to go, I have to go_  
 _Your hair was long when we first met_

               John Watson never thought of himself as anything too special. He had never truly excelled at anything in his life – not trumpet lessons when he was in year three, not archery when he was in year seven, and certainly not ballroom dancing when he was in year ten and trying to impress the cute ginger girl in his class, Bethany Something-or-other. Even his academics were passable at best – he’d passed his GCSEs, and then barely scraped by in his A-Levels. College had been a bit of an unenthusiastic mess, and it was only once he’d made it to university that he really got an idea of what he wanted to do with his life. After his education was completed, he worked his way up through the ranks of the Army, but that was more resilience than any particular aptitude for leading. He was good at what he did, great, even, but certainly not the best. And then the fire fight had come, and even his mediocre niche was taken from him when he was sent home from Afghanistan with a box full of medals and a shoulder full of shrapnel.

               It wasn’t until one fateful day, on an insignificant walk from an insignificant therapy session in an insignificant park that the single most significant event of the Army doctor’s life took place. His old mate from when he’d studied at St. Bart’s had happened to spot him, happened to recognise him, and then just so happened to be so socially awkward that he felt it appropriate to not only pry into John’s problems, but also solve them out of the goodness of his bleeding heart.

               The potential flatmate that Mike Stamford had found for John was nothing short of terrifying, from his disconcerting way of diagnosing John’s entire history within ten seconds of his entering the lab, to his nonsequiters about things he’d left in the mortuary. Still, against his better judgement, John decided to follow up with the conceivably mad man that his friend introduced him to, and never questioned that decision once.

               Not when he found himself facing a possible murder charge.

               Not when he found himself kidnapped, drugged and trussed up with explosives.

               Not when he found himself with guns pointed at his head, knives pressed against his throat, ropes tied around his wrists, or the likelihood that a hound from hell itself was after him.

               It wasn’t until he had introduced Sherlock to his sister for the first time, and this sent his friend into a dark spiralling silence that John thought that maybe it had been a mistake to have invested so much of himself into Sherlock Holmes. There could only be one reason for Harry to have affected Sherlock so, and that was undoubtedly that Sherlock must have seen in her the things that John was so reluctant to admit. Of course Sherlock could see every line of every chapter of John and Harry’s childhood laid out in his sister’s bloodshot eyes (she was suffering from allergies, of course, John assured himself) and pale complexion. Surely Sherlock had deduced that by the way Harry stood in her oversized jumper that had once been John’s that she was still not over their parents’ neglect and abuse, and obviously by clinging to John’s old clothing, she was admitting how he’d stepped up and cared for her when no one  else would. From there, it wouldn’t take a mind as brilliant as Sherlock’s to draw a mental roadmap from each and every confrontation to hungry night to trip to the A&E to failure upon failure on John’s part to protect his little sister. He’d barely been able to protect himself.

               And what could that mean for John? Well, clearly Sherlock would deduce that John had the potential to either become an abusive shit like his father, or an alcoholic waste like his mother and sister. John could nearly feel the last thirteen months of his life unravelling in the silent and uncomfortable forty-five minute cab ride back to London.              

               When they’d re-entered 221B still without speaking, John immediately raced to the sofa and turned on the first show that looked halfway decent. He wasn’t really watching the re-run of _The Office_ that was currently playing, but he needed something to help him clear his mind and prepare him for the inevitable. It wasn’t like Sherlock to be so quiet and contemplative after having just solved a mystery as big as the Baskerville one – his brooding silences were usually reserved for when he was working on a particularly frustrating or difficult case – so the absence of jubilant chatter was definitely a result of the meeting with Harry, and definitely meant something unpleasant for John.

               After nigh an hour passed, and still the men uttered not a single word to each other, John stole yet another furtive glance over to his flatmate. Sherlock was deeply engrossed in some sort of manuscript, his brows knit together in concentration, and a darkness in his eyes that John had only seen once before – when he’d heard the news of Irene Adler’s death, and locked himself away for days at a time, composing a final farewell to, what John suspected, the first woman he’d ever loved.

               It was then and only then that John sadly thought that perhaps he had been wrong to become so seduced by life at Baker St. with the world’s only consulting detective, because if Sherlock were to decide that he’d found the last bit of proof he needed to prove that John was unworthy of his company, where would that leave him? He genuinely could not imagine going back to a life of work and chips and telly and the highlight of his week being watching a game of footie at the corner pub. Life with Sherlock was demanding, surely, but life without him… Was inconceivable.

               The scratching of Sherlock’s pen was beginning to unnerve him. For one wild moment, John imagined that the detective was, in fact, mapping out all John’s faults and potential to become something monstrous. When he could take the tension no longer, he forced himself to stand and walk to Sherlock’s side, ready to confront whatever may come with shoulders straight and head held high, the pain in his chest blessedly invisible to the naked eye.

               Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice John as he was so absorbed in his – what was that? A map of Canada? John let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. This really had nothing to do with him after all. It must be another case – international by the looks of things, as the words ‘three continents’ were scrawled over and over across the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. (John chuckled inwardly at the connotation of those words – in his younger days, ‘Three Continents Watson’ had been his nickname, one that both made him blush and secretly beam with pride, but there was no way Sherlock could have known about that.)

               John was just about to make his presence known when he happened to catch sight of some words on another sheet of paper, partially obscured by the many more scattered on the desk over it.

               _6794\. Allergy to soy. Accidentally served tofu while eating Japanese tonight and had to be rushed to-_

               He remembered that day well, partially from the near-death experience, and partially because it was the first time Sherlock had actually suggested they go out for dinner with the purpose of eating, not because they needed to research for a case. Never having been a fan of Japanese cuisine, and not being able to read anything on the menu, John had simply pointed to any random item, which unfortunately turned out to be miso soup, and it was only after swallowing quite a few chunks of slimy white stuff that turned out to be tofu that John realised his mistake. He’d needed to be rushed to the A&E for that one as his throat rapidly began swelling shut, and he’d broken out in terrible hives on his face and neck.

               Scrawled across another sheet, John saw these words, again incomplete as they ran under one of the many other papers, but it was enough for John to get the general meaning:

               _487\. Separates socks and pants from the rest of wash. Keeps them in a smaller basket to the side. Can’t see the point in-_

Numbers and words jumped out at the doctor from all over the mess of pages, and they were all about _him_. Without thinking, he reached for the sheets, causing Sherlock to jump when he finally noticed their proximity. With slightly shaking, but gentle hands, he scooped up the pile of pages, organised them into a neater stack, and began to read.

               All those words, carefully thought out and numbered, were a complete and utter dissection of his very being. Thoughts on his morning and night-time routine, observations of his eating habits, notes about his interests in sports and music, hypothesises about why he was the way he was, and (oh God!) even annotations about things he did in his sleep and in the shower. Page after page after page he read, feeling oddly touched and strangely vulnerable as he recognised, yet again, how he literally had no secrets from his flatmate.

               He finally reached the last page, the last observation, and read:

 _10973\. ‘Three Continents Watson’ would most assuredly_ **_not_ ** _have any interest in a borderline asexual sociopath. Enough is enough, Holmes. Case closed._

             His mouth went dry. Whatever he had been expecting, this certainly hadn’t been it. His mind raced in about a hundred directions at once. Sherlock was denying that he, John, would be interested in him, the single most interesting and incredible man he’d ever met? It seemed absurd, and if it weren’t for the fact that he knew Sherlock’s sense of humour was far too sophisticated for such nonsense, he would have assumed that the entire manuscript was some sort of long, drawn out joke at his expense.

               Finally he spoke. ‘Wh-what is this?’ he asked, hardly daring to hope. He remembered a night, over a year ago, sitting at a table with a candle and his cane, when he’d spoken without thinking, and had his heart tossed back to him almost thoughtlessly. Since that night, he’d focussed solely on being a friend to Sherlock, because surely the man needed one badly. (Well, a friend or a nanny, he supposed either one would suffice.)

               Sherlock didn’t answer him right away, instead started tapping a staccato beat with the pen still clutched in his hand, but John did notice the faint blush that crept up his impossibly high cheekbones. Seconds bled into eternity before the detective finally answered.

               ‘Case notes,’ he admitted shyly, ‘A case of you.’

               John said no words, he simply put his hand over Sherlock’s, ending the erratic drum solo, and squeezed tight.

_~~~~~_  
 _Samson went back to bed, not much hair left on his head_  
 _He ate a slice of Wonderbread, and went right back to bed_  
 _And the history books forgot about us, and the Bible didn’t mention us_  
 _And the Bible didn’t mention us_  
 _Not even once_

              Weeks, or maybe lifetimes passed, and they were the happiest of John had ever known. Loving Sherlock was like nothing he’d ever experienced. He’d known love, of course, both physically and emotionally, but this was something new, something all-encompassing and brilliant and terrifying and different and same. The transition from flatmates to friends to… Whatever they were now, had been seamless, as though it was the natural progression they were meant to take. It was exhilarating.

               Slowly, painstakingly slowly, Sherlock began letting John learn about him the way he, Sherlock, had observed John from afar all those long months. Not being as astute a spectator as Sherlock was, John found himself finally allowed to verbalise all his questions about the detective, some that he’d had for months, and some he didn’t even know he’d wondered. He learned of Sherlock’s childhood (similar to his own), of his first crush (Annie Lennox!), of his dreams for the future (to retire to the country and take up beekeeping). He learned and he studied, and he studied and he learned in a way he had never applied himself whilst in school.

               From an outsider’s point of view, he was sure things at Baker St. seemed routine as usual. He went to work at the clinic when he wasn’t on a case with Sherlock. He did the laundry and the shopping, though now Sherlock would usually accompany him. (He smiled at the memory of the first time Sherlock had gone to Tesco with him and managed to not only get lost in the bakery section, but also provoke the butcher so thoroughly with his usual cutting remarks that John was pretty sure the man would have chucked his cleaver at them had he not hurried Sherlock away from the counter.) He made tea. He showered. The only difference now was the broad smile that never seemed to leave his face, and somehow that changed everything.

_~~~~~_  
 _You are my sweetest downfall_  
 _I loved you first, I loved you first_  
 _Beneath the starscape falling on our heads_  
 _But they’re just old light, they’re just old light_  
 _Your hair was long when we first met_

              More days passed, and the feeling of overall contentment did not fade from inside 221B. There were bumps in the road, surely, such as the many times John had come home from a particularly long day at the clinic, only to find the flat in shambles thanks to Sherlock’s latest experiment, or the times Sherlock, in a fit of boredom-induced ruthlessness found himself speaking carelessly in a way he swore he never would again after he had so hurt John at Baskerville. However, the men learned from their mistakes and moved forward and grew together. They had not yet been intimate – nor even shared their first kiss – but John was not overly concerned. Time passed differently when he was with Sherlock – days seemed like moments and moments like days, and he knew that thing would happen when they were meant to happen, and until then he was simply enjoying the ride. In the meantime, life was good.

               Yes, all was well until one exceptionally slow Thursday night when John convinced Sherlock to go out for a drink with him at one of the bars up the road. It wasn’t something they normally did, but John had had a shit day at work, Sherlock had begun shooting the wall again out of boredom, and it was blatantly clear that they both desperately needed a change of scenery.

               The bar itself was dreary, borderline seedy, and mostly unoccupied. Still, it was quiet and the drinks were cheap, which was good since it had been quite some time since Sherlock had gotten a new case (and therefore a paycheque.) John ordered himself a pint, Sherlock a glass of pinot noir, which made the barman scoff and roll his eyes. Quickly, John steered Sherlock away from the bar and into a booth before Sherlock could open his mouth to bring the poor fellow’s gambling habit or cheating wife to light. Sherlock grumbled as he was bustled about, but his moody expression cleared as he settled into the booth across from John.

The men sat in amicable silence as Sherlock sipped his wine gracefully. John imagined he must look like an uncouth savage next to Sherlock as he gulped his beer greedily, eagerly anticipating that beautiful moment when the alcohol hit his bloodstream and began relieving some of his tension. It had almost worked when suddenly John found himself being assaulted as someone threw themselves into his booth and slung an arm around his shoulders. He instantly reached for his gun, forgetting that he’d left it back at Baker St. Sherlock, who was not so reliant on firearms, launched himself around the table and roughly yanked the vaulting stranger to his feet.

‘Easy, easy, eee-asy, mate!’ the stranger said cheerfully (drunkenly), raising his hands in mock surrender, ‘I’was just comin’ over ta pay m’respects to Johnny Boy over here! Johnny, Johnny, John John – it’s been far to fuckin’ long!’

               John, who had been straightening his coat and sopping up spilled beer, peered up at the somewhat intoxicated man before him. Lo and behold, it was his old mate from his Army days, Billy Potts. He broke into a wide smile and stood, giving Sherlock a reassuring glance, and pulled Billy from Sherlock’s grasp.

               ‘Billy!’ he exclaimed, and clapped the man on the shoulder. He motioned for Billy to sit down and join them. Sherlock didn’t look especially happy at their newest addition, but he forced a polite smile, and John could tell that the detective was sincerely trying to hide his annoyance. ‘Sherlock, this is Billy Potts, my mate from the Army. Billy, this is Sherlock Holmes, my-’

               ‘I’was just talkin’ ‘bout you the other night, Johnny Boy,’ Billy interrupted loudly. ‘Ran in ta MacGuther ‘n his old lady ‘round these parts ‘n we was just sayin’ how it’s been ages since we saw the old gang. All’a them’s went and got themselves hitched these days – Hudson, Turner, Jones, Smith ‘n other Smith, Harrison – they all went ‘n got themselves tied down. Well anyways, I said to MacGuther ‘I bet Watson’s still a free man. No bird’s gonna getta ball ‘n chain ‘round Three Continents Watson, thas fer sure!’ ‘n he says he hadn’t heard from you since you got back from the sandbox ‘n that he heard you was a cripple, but it sure look like you’s back on yer feet! So tell me, John John,’ Billy said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, ‘How many broads you got clamourin’ ‘round your door these days?’

               From across the table, John saw Sherlock’s jaw lock and he stared moodily down at his lap. John shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat, ‘Well, actually-’ he began, but Billy interrupted again with a loud, boisterous laugh.

               ‘ ’Member that night back in one of them bases in… Germany, was it? And those girls from the club there wanted ta know all about what it’s like ta live in England ‘n such ‘n ya offered ta show ‘em ‘Big Ben’?! Them twins was especially eager ta see what madeja tick if I recall!’ Billy said, slapping John on the shoulder, ‘How many of ‘em didja plow through that night? I think ‘twas a group of six or seven, if memory serves correctly!’

               John blushed. Sherlock was now looking murderous and abruptly stood and strode over to the bar. John watched the barman look surprised, then reach under the bar and grab some glasses.

               ‘I think it was more like four that night,’ he mumbled as Sherlock returned, holding three glasses of amber coloured liquid that could only be whiskey. ‘What’s this?’

               ‘Well, as we’re listening to the war hero recount stories of his glory days, I thought it only appropriate that we toast to them,’ Sherlock said pointedly. John was sure Billy would not detect the layer of ice beneath the civil tone, ‘So drink up, gentlemen, and let’s hear one more about ‘Three Continents Watson’, yes?’

               ‘ _Hell_ yes!’ Billy said enthusiastically, and grabbed his glass. He clinked it against Sherlock and John’s glasses before downing it in one gulp, ‘Y-yer alright, y’know?’ he said to Sherlock, patting the detective on the arm. John half expected Sherlock to hit him, but instead he kept the same detached smile on his face and emptied his glass in one swallow as well. Without another word, he returned to the bar, and exchanged a few words and bills. When he came back to the table, John saw he was holding the bottle of whiskey. He poured himself a generous amount then gestured to Billy, who nodded appreciatively and Sherlock filled his glass.

John was unnerved – he’d never seen Sherlock drink to excess, and was truly surprised at how easily the other man was putting away copious amounts of the terribly strong alcohol. Then he understood. This was no longer an ordinary night out. Billy’s appearance and apparent relish for bringing up John’s sordid past had changed all that in an instant.

               This was a danger night.

               ‘So, Billy,’ Sherlock said after he finished his second glass of whiskey, his words beginning to slur slightly. His hands shook only faintly as he filled his glass yet again, ‘Tell me more about old Johnny Boy and how he got the name ‘Three Continents Watson’.’


End file.
